


Something to Fight For // Something to Live For

by LionThot, TwoFox



Category: LOVE DEATH + ROBOTS (Cartoon)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Gen, Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 21:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19484167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LionThot/pseuds/LionThot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoFox/pseuds/TwoFox
Summary: As the sport of beastie-baiting becomes more popular, Valcorp, a biomedical engineering company, becomes the first corporation to sponsor a baiter: a promising fledgling named Mistel. Their primary focus? Khanivore, and Sonnie's legendary winning streak.Something to Fight For // Something to Live For is an exploration of trans-lesbian relationships through the gritty underbelly of the world suggested by the short "Sonnie's Edge", from Love Death + Robots. This work contains graphic violence, both in and out of the pit, as well as other adult themes. Note that this is a direct continuation of "Sonnie's Edge", and as such contains spoilers.





	Something to Fight For // Something to Live For

_Five._

First, she focused on taste, making sure that she could pick out every flavor of the bland nutrition bar she'd eaten an hour ago. Her sponsors didn't want to risk her being nauseous before a fight like this— wouldn't dream of letting her near real food until after she'd won. Nothing they did was less than perfectly calculated.

_Four._

Next, was smell: most obviously were the twin scents of cheap beer and urea, the universal signifier of large crowds, but beneath that was something more familiar, more primal. Blood, the iron in the hemoglobin providing that lovely metallic smell. The arena was cleaned after every fight, of course, but she supposed that after enough blood was spilled, the scent would linger forever.

_Three._

Touch. The chill of the frigid air conditioning against her exposed skin made it hard to focus on other things: she had always hated the cold. Hopefully it wouldn't prove a distraction. They had spent so much time and money on cultivating the perfect image for her: trying to clean her up enough to be marketable while still maintaining an edge. A side shave, dyed hair, revealing clothing and hologram wings- she felt like a piece of meat more than anything, tightly bound in plastic and far removed from its source so as not to make others uncomfortable.

_Two._

Onto the next sense, before she lost her cool: the low murmur of the crowd above her, ready to erupt into a thunderous roar at any moment. She focused on the whispers, trying to discern anything she could from the rumbling hum of tension in the air. She couldn't make out much, but she didn't have to.

_"Twenty-two win streak"_

_"The Valcorp girl"_

_"Fenrir"_

_"Khanivore"_

They were all talking about the same thing: tonight would be the night that Sonnie and her beastie, Khanivore, would lose their first match in over a year. Valcorp wouldn't accept anything less from her.

_One._

She opened her eyes and gave a nod to the ever-changing series of names and faces that made up her technical team. Her senses grounded, Mistel stepped through the curtains and into the arena.

The noise of the crowd at the sight of her was all but overwhelming, yet she tuned them out. Instead, she gazed across pit at her opponent: Sonnie, the girl that had never lost a fight, who was said to be the bane of every man. The best beastie-baiter there had ever been, and the only other woman in the sport. She was the reason Mistel started baiting, and according to her sponsor, her greatest rival. To Mistel's surprise, she was utterly beautiful. 

She traced the path of the girl's scars with her eyes, then followed the cobra that wove its way around her torso. Mistel couldn't keep her eyes off of the curve of her lips, her prominent cheekbones, her- 

A rough hand grabbed her shoulder. "Enough staring, it's time to fight," a male voice grunted. Mistel shoved aside her thoughts and sat into a meditative stance as she felt the affinity link activate.

Below, Fenrir opened his eyes and emerged from the life support pod. He stretched his muscles, and then slinked off down the corridor, fur slick with gel. He emerged into the arena in a classic gladiator stance, roaring at the sight of the crowd. Fenrir was a surprisingly short beastie that resembled a wolf, including a pair of ears— an unusual feature for a beastie, because they provided an easy place to take hold of. Valcorp had equipped him with the best senses that could be engineered, and Mistel was trained to take advantage of that. With the right focus, she could feel everything from Khanivore's footsteps to the air currents around his fur; bioware processors helped her make sense of all the extra input. 

Mistel was quite familiar with Khanivore, courtesy of a litany of personal instruction from Valcorp. Nevertheless, it was intimidating to see the monster before her. Khanivore easily stood a half metre taller than Fenrir, vaguely humanoid in form, with a thick, barbed tail sprouting from the back of her bladed, shark-like head. A low, crocodilian growl escaped her throat, and as the announcer riled up the crowd, Mistel quickly took stock of her new senses to ease her mind.

_Taste_ : the bitter life support gel that still filled his mouth.

 _Smell_ : the sickly sweet scent of Khanivore's flesh, fresh from her own life support pod.

 _Touch_ : the gentle disturbances in the air from the other beastie's movements.

 _Sound_ : the hologram announcer declaring the start of the fight.

 _Sight_ : Khanivore's gleaming tail as she made the first strike.

The suddenness of her opponent’s initial attack caught Mistel off guard but with surprising agility Fenrir jumped out of the way of the slashing strike. Khanivore’s tail scraped against the grain of his fur. It came back bloodied, skin scraped away by the razor edges of his coarse hide.

Seizing the initiative, Fenrir pivoted on his foot, redirecting his momentum for a lunge towards Khanivore’s legs. She fell, but rolled backwards before he could get a grasp, splitting her tail into four barbed tentacles to support her weight. Her feet entirely off the ground, she swung forward into a kick, claws aimed for his throat. She struck true, talons tearing through his flesh like butter. The force of the blow nearly severed Fenrir’s head on impact. 

Fenrir fell to his knees, and Khanivore pulled him into a grapple. Her tentacles mercilessly penetrated him again and again, but the fight wasn’t over yet. As he wriggled under her grasp, Fenrir’s razor fur did its job, opening lacerations wherever Khanivore held fast. Beasties might not feel pain, but Mistel knew that it would be harder to hold onto a bloody combatant than a dry one. For the briefest moment, Khanivore loosened her grip to readjust. It was all Mistel needed. She had her opening, and the match was as good as won. 

Plunging his claws into her sides, the beastie howled: a deafening screech that carried with it a shrill, piercing whine— a signal for what was to come. Khanivore struggled to get away, but it was already far too late. Deep inside Fenrir, tucked below his four pounding hearts, electrocytic organs opened their ion channels. Arcs of electricity bristled through his fur, and flooded into Khanivore with a concussive clap of thunder. She spasmed, then went limp.

Every voice was hushed. The scents of blood and ozone overpowered all else. Fenrir withdrew his claws with a fountain of viscera, then stepped back with his arms in the air. As he turned to face the crowd, his head lolled back on the remnants of his neck and they cheered louder than Mistel had ever heard. She had really done it. She had beaten the unbeatable. Her hero had fallen— by her hand.  
  
\----------------------------------------------------  
  
Sonnie’s world was awash with pain. Pain and fear, the kind that only those on the verge of death can truly know. Not panic, but the distilled sense of human preservation. Whether or not she was still human, it was that fear that made her feel truly alive. On edge, she began to assess the damage. Her mind flooded with amber and red warnings from the bioprocessors: burns, deep lacerations, nerve damage, and a handful of others had cropped up in the meanwhile. Whatever had hit Khanivore, whatever had hit _her_ , had left her in bad shape. She could feel the cold numbness of blood loss beginning to set in, stealing her strength, sapping her focus.  


She had to get up. She had to keep fighting. She had— The crowd was chanting something, and it didn’t take much of a guess to figure out what they were saying: _“Finish her! Finish her!”_ She had to win.

Sonnie opened her eyes, and the burning light of the arena stabbed at her retinas. Her opponent was standing metres away, roaring in triumph while she lay on the smooth concrete floor in a growing pool of her own blood. Already her consciousness was beginning to fade, darkness beginning to encroach at the edge of her vision. She had to finish this, fast.

The other baiter seemed to think that she’d already won, and had turned her back on her opponent. A smile crept across her reptilian lips.

Rookie mistake.

Sonnie torqued her hips, using the momentum to stand on one knee and follow through with a powerful thrust from her tail, all four segments coming together to plunge towards Fenrir’s exposed back. Impossibly, the other baiter had sensed her attack coming and began to dodge. It was an instant too late. Her tail pierced through the wolf’s side, missing vitals but cleanly sinking through. Almost instantly, she ripped her tail back, throwing Fenrir off balance with a lurid spray of blood that shone obsidian in the arena’s ultraviolet lighting. Recovering quickly, it turned and bore down on her, and in that adrenaline-filled moment time seemed to slow.  


Sonnie could pick out every razor sharp strand of fur on the beastie’s arm as its baiter threw all of its strength into a finishing blow. Its oddly angular claws flashed through the air, arcing to bury themselves in the side of her head. She stepped away and they swiped just past the front of her face. She gripped its wrist and shoulder and pulled it close. 

Fenrir tried to twist and writhe away but she slipped in behind it, closed her jaws around its neck, planted a clawed foot in the small of its back, and pulled with every ounce of strength she had left. With a sickening pop, the tearing of flesh, and a fountain of blood, Fenrir’s head ripped free and the crowd went wild. Its decapitated body collapsed on the floor, twitched, and went still.

Sonnie proudly displayed its head to the crowd, her fear beginning to subside, but with it, her exhilaration. She looked up at her opponent, whose mouth was agape with incredulity. Sonnie could understand her disbelief; that shock had come closer to killing her than anything ever had. If the girl hadn't been a rookie… A cold wave of fear crept over her, but she pushed it aside. She would discuss the legality of it with Wes and Ivrina later. For now, she needed to heal. 

Sonnie limped back to her life support pod. The fight was over, and she had earned a few more weeks of living. Tonight, she could celebrate, but it would ring hollow. It always did. The doors of the pod closed around her, and it began to fill with clear, oxygenated gel. She knew that whatever she did, she wouldn't feel very alive until the next fight. Until then… Sonnie closed her eyes and emptied her lungs with a long sigh. Her affinity link activated. Above, what was once a girl awoke to a crowd chanting her name.

  



End file.
